The wind howled through the back alleys of Los Angeles, the sky dark with storm clouds. Although it wasn't raining, the distant sound of rumbling prophecied a rather intense storm about to hit. Slowly, water began to pitter-patter down from the heavens, slowly drizzling. This storm, though, would turn out to be a big one. Seers and soothsayers from every pantheon suddenly and violently lost sight of the future. Rumblings through the Otherworld about this sudden loss of Foresight came with a sudden crack of lightning in the sky and an opening of the pluvial floodgates. Fate was moving in mysterious ways that the Gods could not understand. The Gods, no matter how progressive, were still set in their ways. Something new was on the horizon and the Gods were not prepared to deal with it. The fate of the world would rest on their progeny, their seed that walk the Earth, They would eventually inherit their parents' mantles, but not before the world went to Hell, Hades, and the Underworld and back.

The storm over Los Angeles grew larger and larger, and the storm was even felt in San Diego. The Divine Pantheons all looked to the City of the Angels, feeling the work of Fate pulling them towards the city. The fastest of each pantheon reached the city in a matter of minutes, but when they arrived at the city, they found themselves unable to enter. Something powerful was at work here, and it was something the Gods did not understand. Each pantheon pointed a finger at the other, and old rivalries and hatreds, buried with the passing of time, resurfaced. Everyone in the world, religious or not, young or old, sat on the edges of their seats, but nobody knew why. Everyone just knew that something of monumental proportions was happening._____________________________________________________________________________

Everyone, for one reason or another, has found themselves in the lovely city of Los Angeles. The ultimate reason is because Fate has deigned it necessary for you to be there. What you are doing there is completely up to you. Whether you know any of the other scions is up to each of you to figure out with the other members of the RP. We'll be using the same OOC thread for any big announcements or anything of the like. Also, because of the nature of this RP, we can insert people pretty much whenever so if you're interested in joining or know someone who is, please let me know via IM or e-mail. We can definitely use some more players. Thanks.

The smoke on the stage had barely settled in the dim illumination of one single, flickering spotlight when the crowd began to disperse. They had had their fill of entertainment for the night, and now their thoughts drifted somewhere else, away from the magic that had spellbound them so thoroughly the hour and a half they'd spent in the cramped, badly ventilated theatre. Vague memories of amazing feats occasionally surfaced, in some more powerfully than in others, but the glamour of it all was seeping from them as the greyness of everyday rituals once more occupied their thoughts.

Honestly, it wasn't worth it. Rodica had left the scene with a glimmering, pearly-white smile, but as soon as she stepped behind the courtains, her demeanor dropped, corners of her mouth sagging down as she began to undress on her way to the small little closet they called her dressingroom. Tatters of the dress she'd made, a sparkling thing reminding everyone of cajun mysteries and southern witches with a penchant for pinning needles into puppets (After all, that's what they were made to do, the costumes) were already falling from the pins she'd had to use as an emergency solution when she'd realized her sewing machine was still tucked away in the trunk of Jerrod, her manager and the worst man to ever ooze into an office and call himself such.

Jerrod was still over in Arizona, trying to talk a cheapskate of a hotel manager into paying the something-grands he owed them for three nights of extra shows that she had generously agreed to perform. That was Rodica in a nutshell, people went crazy over her, but as soon as the magic was gone, they'd always find a way to worm their way out of any agreement.

She threw open the door to her closet, nearly lost her tophat before remembering to duck, and threw the remains of her dress onto the small cupboard against the wall, and sank down on the chair in front of the grease-covered mirror, looking herself over. The envelope with the cash payment on the dresser was barely noticed.

It was hard to see any traces of the schoolgirl who'd gone to the states... it was weeks ago, months maybe, she hadn't bothered to keep track of it. Money rolled in, and money rolled out, she didn't much care for anything right now, and she looked wistfully at the bottle of Captain Morgan's spiced gold, then poured herself a helpful and clinked it against the mirror. The tired, emotionless face of an early tweener looked back at her. Her page-cut, coal-black hair made her fairly light-skin seem darker, and the dim light certainly did their best to further enhance the image of a swamp-queen, although her youth still gave her some doubtful looks... or maybe it was the exposing way she dressed, happily showing off skin to get the men in the house all hot and bothered, and the ladies' too, if the night permitted.

It was all a big show, anyway, and as she pulled off the last of her stage outfit she downed the rum, pouring herself some more as she slipped into sometihng more comfortable, a tanktop and a pair of faded, darkblue jeans, rustling her hair a bit as she walked over to a basin to clean the thick make-up from her face.

Why'd she even come here? Her trip across the states had been going well, not perfect, but she'd earn good enough. But to think that she could compete in the city of angels? She was an unknown, a rookie on the most hardline and intolerable market there was. Nobody wanted stage magic anymore, at least not the good old-fashioned kind... she smoldered slightly as the raw soap cleaned the pores of her face, and colored the water reddish-brown.

Then she was up, downing the second glass of rum and pushing down her things into the wheeled luggage usually just carrying her personals, money-envelope pushed into the pocket of her tight jeans, ripping a little by the force. She grabbed the bottle by the neck and pushed the hat down over her ears again, smirking for herself as she let the humdrum of the night just fall off her. For a second she seemed lost, then she padded the side of the bag and dug out a wooden cigar-case. Opening it with familiar ease she took a thick, cuban roll out of it, smelled along its length before bitting off a tip, spitting it into the glass she'd been drinking from and produced a lit match.

She hummed blissfully as the smoke burned into her lungs, and with a half-cough, half-cheer she opened the door, dragging her bag in one hand, the bottle of rum in the other. Now she just needed to find a place to stay, and she'd get around calling Jerrod in the morning. Tonight, she'd make damn sure not a cent was left to burn a hole in her pocket.

The acrid scent of blood drifted across the air currents and worked its way into Tepiltzin, reminding him of the night’s work. She had been pretty and young. The scent carried with it the last indicators of fear and panic, lending a not unpleasant afterthought to the rich aroma, and Tepiltzin breathed deep. Her life had gone from her eyes, and her face was still a distorted mask of tears and pain. It was a pity. If only she had known, could understand, what her death had been for. Now, she was silent, and he set to work, allowing her blood to drain into the clay bowls he had set to gather it. He worked quickly, knowing the ins and outs of the human body, where the most important and sacred organs lay. As he worked, he whispered prayers to the gods, made offerings of the various organs and bones. He held Xiuhcoatl, his sacrificial blade and a gift from his father, deftly in his hand, and used it with surgical precision. The process ended minutes after it began; he had found the heart, the last organ and the one most sacred to the gods. He held it high, over his head, and let the blood drip onto his face, a solemn and proper sacrifice complete. This was how Gods were meant to be worshipped; not with meaningless communions and endless litanies of self denial, but with blood and sacrifice. It was a true God who demanded respect, not love. Like Tepiltzin’s father, not the pathetic corpse-god of his mother. The sudden thought of his mother produced an involuntary sneer from Tepiltzin. She had been weak, a catholic high-school student when his father had seduced and impregnated her, a fact she had never forgiven herself, or Tepiltzin, for. She had also been the first person he had sacrificed to his father, on the night of his 16th birthday when his heritage had been revealed. That night still lived in his memory, these 10 years later. The terror, the awe, the thrill were as vivid today as they were then. His blood had come alive then and he had been filled with divine purpose, his path made clear. He was a true son of his father, and would see him restored to his former glory. The Gods had not been honored in too long, and the world about him showed the decay.

Dawn broke, crisp and clear, over the desert of San Simon Az. A Latin man, about 5’6” and handsome, walked out of the cellar of his house into the light, dressed in jeans and a black shirt across which was written AC/DC. He got into his car, an old and Chrysler Concorde and drove off.

He wandered around town for a few hours, running various errands. Town was small, with few people and fewer prospects of continuing Tepiltzin’s work. Besides, too many people had already disappeared from the area, and authorities were on alert. No connection had been made with his earlier work across the southwest, but soon….

His thoughts were interrupted by supermarket cashier, a teenager with severe acne, speaking to him.

“I’m sorry- what did you ask?” Tepiltzin replied, coming to attention.

“Could I just see your driver’s license for a moment? New policy on personal checks,” the cashier asked dully. Tepiltzin handed it over and waited as he entered the information into his register. He handed it back and the register printed a receipt, “Thank you for shopping with us today Mr. Eliseo. Have a good morning.”

He smiled warmly and grabbed his things, but inside he was scowling. Eliseo. Carlos Eliseo. The name his wretch of a mother had given him, the one he had discarded years before. On the way out, he realized too late that one bag had been packed too full. It split along the bottom, and the contents came spilling out. A bottle of red wine vinegar hit the floor and cracked, the crimson liquid spilling out and snaking along the floor, finding the lowest points. Tepiltzin cursed quietly as an employee rushed over to help him and another went to replace his broken bottle. He knelt down to pick of the other items, and his eyes were caught by the liquid, which oozed away from the bleeding bottle and had begun to pool at the foot of a metal display. His eyes tracked upward to read the sign, on which was written:

Tell us your opinion and you could Win!3 day 2 nights in Los Angeles!Fill out Customer survey and enter online for your chance to Win!

His face broke into a smile. Yes. Los Angeles was a fine place to begin anew. Tepiltzin knew a portent when he saw one, probably knew them better than most. He gathered his things and walked out without glancing back.

That night, a house in San Simon burned to the ground. The blaze had already consumed most of the structure by the time fire-fighters arrived. The incident was labeled an electric fire- apparently a space heater had been left on near flammable material. The bodies of the two elderly owners of the house were found in bed, burnt to the bone. Nothing else was recovered.

Tepiltzin wandered around his new apartment, setting up the few personal pieces he had saved. The city was alive all around him, fresh with life and blood, pulsing with a heartbeat fit for a God. It was like a beast, this city, breathing, moving, people flowing through its streets like blood through veins, and spewing filth into the air and rivers around it. He reached his bedroom, and pulled the cover from his most prized possession, a gift from his father. A large jagged obsidian slab, polished to mirror sheen, was mounted on the wall in his bedroom. He ran his hand along its surface and felt the power within it. It was a shard of his father’s mirror, a tool of prophecy and power and had served him so well in the past, revealing truth and warning him of pitfalls before they happened. The last few days, however, it had shown him nothing. It lay silent and cold beneath his fingertips, and no ritual had persuaded fate to bestow him a vision. Tonight he would try again but, like all things, it would require blood. He had already found an abandoned warehouse, a place out of the way and remote in the crowded city. It would work perfectly. He would need to transport the mirror there. Now he would need to find a fitting sacrifice. Young and beautiful, and healthy. That was the most important part- healthy. He stepped out of his apartment and walked down the stairs, leaving his building behind. Down the street, a show was letting out of the theatre he had moved in next too. Perfect. It had begun to rain, and Tepiltzin looked at the sky and opened his umbrella.

"Name please, sir?" The hotel clerk was in her mid twenties, a platinum blonde with the sort of attractiveness that came from implements labeled "Maybelline" or "L'Oreal" - glossy red lips, dramatic blue eyeshadow, curled eyelashes, artificially flawless complexion. Not uncommon in Los Angeles.

"Tonious," her tall, broad, bearded customer answered, speaking in a clear baritone. "Donald Tonious. T-O-N-I-O-U-S." He squinted and rubbed his brow, feeling punished by the jet-lag that was making itself felt like ball bearings in his bloodstream. His internal clock was three hours fast - on the east coast, where sane people lived, it was 12 midnight, so what did the sun think it was doing hanging around here so long? At least at that moment the sky looked right. As right as everything felt wrong, anyway. Maybe it was the lighting in the hotel lobby.

The clerk smiled the smile of someone whose job it is to smile as she checked the hotel records. "Of course, Mr. Tonious."

The clerk didn't even seem to hear him, as focused as she was on the task of finding his reservation. She adjusted her silk blouse, pinching the material between a pair of inch-and-a-half manicured talons and absent-mindedly calling additional attention to her prodigious cleavage. I don't think I can remember Maria ever wearing anything like that, Don mused silently. The makeup only once, at the wedding. God, I don't think I'll ever see anything as beautiful as she looked then for a long time. He suddenly, crushingly missed his house in Connecticut and his beautiful wife and their three-year-old son, and wished he could call home, but he knew that it was midnight there and Maria would need her sleep to manage Jeff without Don's help. Don had managed to all but entirely dodge presentations, on-site work, and conferences since Maria had been pronounced pregnant, and the pair of conferences he was in California to attend - the first in Los Angeles, the second in San Francisco - represented the first time he had been called away from his expanding family for more than two nights in almost five years. He had to go, because the company he worked for had no one else who spoke the language of hydroelectic dams quite like Don did.

Hydroelectric dams were made of metal and stone and ingenuity and carried fire to the people of the world. Don had no idea how many other Scions of his father Hephaestus were around, but he guessed that he wasn't the only one who had wound up as a geotechnical engineer.

The pretty young clerk found Don's reservation and produced an envelope-wrapped keycard and another empty lipstick smile. Don returned it wanly and set off for his room, dragging or carrying four different bags of various description. He silently thanked his divine father for the prodigious strength he had always enjoyed naturally (which the awakening of the ichor in his blood had only increased) as he lugged it all into the elevator and requested the fourth floor.

Don's second stop after dropping his bags on the bed in his room was to use the bathroom. He examined his reflection in the mirror as he was washing his hands. Six feet, five inches, built like a football player even at thirty-five. Curly brown hair pretty much everywhere, which Maria loved. Bushy eyebrows over expressive dark brown eyes. Attired, at that moment, in a white button-down, khakis, and work boots, which was his standard mode of dress when he wasn't wearing the armor he forged himself for renn fairs, LARPs, and meetings of the Society for Creative Anachronism. His full beard was something that he had sported after his work for the Army Corps of Engineers ended - he was just a civilian with them, so he didn't need to be clean-shaven, but it was an image thing. Don hated image things, generally, but sometimes they were unavoidable.

Don finished up washing his hands and collapsed on the bed, staring up at the textured plaster ceiling of his hotel room. "I hate traveling," he groused to the empty room. "I want to be back in Connecticut."

Rodica walked out into the night, the rain falling about her. The first place she could find that sold booze at that hour was a small bar on the first floor of a nice enough hotel. The hotel was just a block down the road, but in the downpour it was enough to soak her through. Although the top of her head, shielded by the hat, was slightly drier, she still walked into the lobby sopping wet.

As it happens, this is also the same hotel that Donald was staying at. As he lay on the bed, the phone rang. The platinum blonde was on the phone, telling him that there was a package for him at the front desk that she had forgotten to give to him. She apologized half-heartedly, then hung up before Donald could really say anything.

Tepeltzin walked down the street, the large rain drops beating against the top of his umbrella with a loud staccato. As he weaved in and out of the crowd letting out from the theater, a man bumped into him, hard, almost forcing him to drop the umbrella.

(Spleen, I hope that receptionist isn't some sort of retribution for the receptionist in The Precinct. =P)

Why was it raining now? It'd been sunny in the afternoon when she'd first come here! She shook her head in disbelief, drawing a long breath from her cigar, exhaling through her nose and trying to gather her thoughts, eyes half open as she walked down the street, stepping in the occasional, quickly-growing puddle.

The rain didn't bother her much, it was just the city cleaning itself from the garbage of yesterday, and although she was certainly not dressed for the weather, she wasn't the one to worry. Colds didn't stick to her, never had, and besides, she had the captain to help keep her warm. She just needed to find a place to stay, dump her things, and then go out and explore the night life of the pearl of the West Coast, or whatever they called it. In the morning, she'd call Jerrod, and she'd know where he was, and consequently where the rest of her meager show-stuff were.

Suddenly she realized her feet had taken her to where she wanted to go on their own accord. She was standing outside a hotel, not luxurious, but certainly not the worst place she'd stayed in, and the place had a bar! A smile crept up on her face as she took another swig from the bottle in her hand, puffed her cigar some more and then put it out on the wall before flicking it away. The automated doors hissed open, and she found herself in the reception area, soaking wet with her clothes clinging to her skin and leaving little for the imagination, looking around with an expectant smile...

"I want a room." she told the bimbo at the reception bluntly, her voice hinting of a vaguely east-european descent, "Cheapest you've got."

She was half-way to asking the blonde where the best place to rumble around here was, but thought better of it. She doubted the girl even lived in this neighbourhood anyway. She'd start with the bar here, get a few people rounded up for one hell of a party, and then they'd get the snowball rolling. Who knew where they'd end up?

Don put down the phone and, grumbling to himself, slung his well-worn black backpack over his shoulder and stepped out of his room. He had the backpack because that was where his wallet and room key were, though the bag also happened to contain the old leather gloves and slide rule that were actually Don's divine birthright.

He took the elevator down to the lobby and walked up to the reception desk, stopping to wait for the receptionist to finish helping a soaking wet girl in a top hat. "Rain's coming down out there, huh?" he asked in a friendly voice, making conversation.

The young woman, a mulatto girl with a strangely coy smile, looked up at the giant of a man, making her already rather short appearence seem even more minute. The wide-brimmed top hat probably obscured her eyes to Don, but she tipped it back and hazel-nut eyes peered out from under the edge.

"Like all the angels are crying." She replied with a coy smile, her voice slightly more deeper and... well, sensual wouldn't be wrong, but mature might perhaps be more fitting. Despite her appearance, she didn't seem to come from around here, her accent speaking of European, maybe russian, descent?

She gave him a scrutinizing look and put the bottle of nearly-drunk rum and her top hat onto the register, ruffling her fairly dry hair a bit before then proceeded to twist out the lower part of her tanktop onto the hotel carpet, dripping water. "But who wouldn't, watching a city like this?" she laughed a little and shook her head, casting a glance around her. "I'm sorry, are you from around here?"

Tepiltzin flowed with the crowd, falling into the rhythm of the hunt. He was comfortable with people; they seemed to naturally accept him. They were easy to manipulate and control, smitten as they were with his good looks and natural charisma- traits only enhanced by the blood of his father.

In front of him, perhaps three or four paces, a woman walked, swaying slightly in the way she knew drove men wild. She was tall, in her twenties, and alone. Tepiltzin’s mind turned, and he let his instincts guide him through the crowd in pursuit. He was subtle, stalking his prey through the night with finesse, biding his time until the opportune time to strike. Xiuhcoatl pressed coolly against his chest. He would introduce himself, flirt and charm her, convince her to trust him. She would be alone, and he would see to it that she remained so. Here he was at home, amongst people at night. To him, it was as bright as day, although the colors were dulled. He wondered how her blood would taste. Each of his victims had had a slightly different flavor, a unique mix of spices to thrill his senses.

He continued on, till he was next to her. He was about to offer his umbrella to her, she had on only a jacket, when someone bumped into him-hard. Tepiltzin stumbled, his umbrella almost falling from his grasp. Anger flared within him for a moment at his unknown assailant, but subsided just as quickly. He glanced back at his quarry. He had lost pace with her in his stumble. Now he stood in front of a hotel, a block from his apartment. Inside a young woman and tall gentleman talked in front of a blonde receptionist. The woman, more girl really, was soaked. The man was much older, bearded and gigantic. The bar was open here, as good a place as any to begin, since his quarry had moved on.

He closed his umbrella under the overhang, then stepped through the automatic doors into the lobby. His black hair, white shirt and jeans remained dry, and he smiled enthusiastically at the assembled group, walking over. He noticed the rum on the counter and wondered who’s it was. They were having a half-hearted conversation, the normal pleasantries. He reached them during a short lull.

“Anybody interesting at the bar?” he asked the pair, gesturing at the rum.

"No," Don said in response to Rodica's question. "I'm from back east. Born and raised in Manhattan, moved to Connecticut when I was a teenager, got a house there with my wife after graduate school. And yourself? Your accent is distinctive. Eastern Europe, maybe?"

Don turned to the newcomer. "I wouldn't know anything about the bar; I'm just down from my room to get a package."

Rodica patiently listened to the man laying himself open like a book before her, and cocked her head on the side a little before giving a broad smile. "It is a pleasure to meet you. And yes, that is correct. It is a bit difficult to hide I suppo-" she cut herself off as the stranger arrived, and she literally turned on a heel, smiling brightly at him, snagging the bottle from the counter. "There won't be 'til we get there, I promise." she transfixed the new-comer with a pleasant smile, taking a swipe of the bottle and offering it to the newcomer, "What say you two we forget about this rain, back east and what else and just have a good time, no?"

Despite her drinking, she hardly seemed intoxicated... well, she wasn't showing much of the usual symptoms anyway, no slurring, swaying, anything like that.

The receptionist typed and clicked away at the keyboard, her face still looking as bored as ever. She occasionally looked up at Rodica, asking for certain things.

"ID?"

"How long will you be staying with us?"

"Would like a complementary turn-down service?"

"Do you have any pets?"

"Do you have any luggage that you would like a bell boy to help you with?"

After all of these questions, the receptionist made a few rather final sounding clicks, then she turned her beautiful but hollow smile on Rodica and said "Alright, that'll be $120 a night. Check-out time is 2 pm. Here's your room key and a key to the laundry room, your room is 3226. Elevators are just to the right and down that hall," here she pointed the way, "Thank you. Have a nice stay."

"Somewhere, I think. Some time tomorrow I guess. What? Yup, but not with me... and this." she pointed to her bag and then dug out the envelope of bills, quickly counting out about 60 dollars and dropped them in the hand of the receptionist, picking up the keys... and with the flick of a wrist her passport was in her hand, appearing from out of nowhere.

The receptionist accepted the money, stashing it away under the desk, then took a quick look at Rodica's passport, typing in some information before handing it back to Rodica. She flashed another smile and said "Thank you." Then she leaned her head around and motioned to the next person, Donald, saying "Next please."

Tepiltzin accepted the bottle from the woman, smiling widely, the large bearded man temporarily forgotten. He took a swig, and let the warm liquid work its way to his core. The woman turned away for a moment to answer a few questions posed by the receptionist. He held the bottle up to the light, examining the amber liquid. The thought of a night out, wandering the streets, bars and clubs with this woman was delightful. She had clearly just arrived, and was full of life, young, and attractive. But it was still early. The Gods would be honored, but Tepiltzin was not yet convinced it would be her blood. He lowered the bottle when the receptionist called for the next person in line. He stepped up to the desk before the bearded man.

“What about you? Maybe you would like to come out and have a good time with us?” he said to the receptionist, as he handed the bottle back to its owner and leaned on the counter in a relaxed pose, “I’m sure it would be the perfect end to a long weary night behind this desk.”

The receptionist looked at the man with her usual bored look. If the man's charms did anything to her, she didn't show it. She was used to having guys hitting on her and, though none of them were nearly as attractive as this man, she still had a level of professionalism to uphold. Instead she said, "Sir, I need to ask you to stay in line and not cut in front of people. Also, don't lean on the counter." She then thought about it for a tic before continuing, "As well, I don't get off until early in the morning, at which time I need to sleep." She didn't seem to be particularly apologetic towards the man. She obviously wanted to say more to the him, but her professionalism prohibited her. Her disgust for men hitting on her while at her job outweighed any moxie Tepeltizn could throw her way. She then looked over Tepeltzin to Donald, again lazily trying to get his attention, saying "Next please."

Rodica's passport disappeared just as quickly as it had materialized, a flick of a wrist and it was gone, and she returned her attention to the slick and admittedly handsome latino, letting her question to the bearded man linger as she gave another heartfelt laugh. Without pause she took another swig of the quickly disappearing rum, although she savored this one more than usual, letting it slowly sink into her stomach and warm her from the inside.

"I seem to have come to the right hotel, at least." she said with a smirk as she shoved the bottle into the hands of Don, whether he wanted it or not, and then simply walked, turning backwards in her steps and smiling at Don and Tepiltzin, "Bring any friends you can find and we'll make this a night the angels of this city would want to forget!" and with that she'd rounded a corner, her wheeled luggage remaining where it was.

Tepiltzin didn’t move from his position. Instead, he smiled, and nodded to the retreating woman’s statement. Then he turned back to the receptionist. “I apologize if I offended you miss,” he said, the smile never leaving his face, “I only meant to ask, in a backwards way, about your night. I’m sure it must be boring, and could stand some livening up. Life is nothing without spice. If I can’t convince you to have a drink with us on your next break, I would settle for your name.”

The receptionist was quite bored with the man's advances, and it showed on her face. When he asked her for her name, she pointed at her name tag, which read Jennifer. She smiled to herself, though it showed a tiny bit in her bored expression. The name tag was a generic one that all the girls at the front desk used, mostly so that creepers didn't use that information to stalk them. The management had provided this amenity for them after one girl went to court to file a law suit against a patron that was harassing her. "Jennifer" didn't want this guy to turn into that man for her. Little did she know his actual intentions were much more distressing that just calling her day and night.

“Well blonde Jennifer, it has been an exquisite pleasure,” Tepiltzin said, catching her smile, “I hope the rest of your shift is…. thrilling.”

He straightened up then, and followed the young woman with the rum, not bothering to glance back. He wasn’t humbled by the blonde’s cold reception (ooc-LOOK! I MADE A PUN!!!). The game had just begun, the night was not near over and had he applied himself in the slightest, she would not have stood a chance. Yet, she was not a target. Too exposed, too many people had seen them talking. More importantly, she as fake, what life had been hers was drained, her essence erased under layers of chemicals and pop-culture. Her blood would be worthless, though her life would do in a pinch. She was not a fitting sacrifice for tonight’s work though. He rounded the corner and found his way to the bar. He scanned the room for the woman he had met earlier as he walked to the counter.

“Excuse me,” he said to the person behind the counter, “but can I send a drink to a room and have the recipient pick it up at the front desk?”

Don had been staring up at the ceiling, apparently lost in thought, when the bottle was pushed into his hand. He shook his head, startled out of his revelry. "Sorry, I get distracted easily when I'm tired," he apologized. "Thinking engineer thoughts again. Did you say something?"

He noticed then that the receptionist was speaking to him and, still holding the bottle, stepped up to the desk. "Sorry. I was told there's a package for me? Room 4220?" He examined the bottle in his hand for the first time. "Rum, hmm?" he looked back at Rodica. "I'm more a beer or wine man, myself."

The receptionist clacked away at the computer in front of her, then went behind a door, coming back out having produced a package in a standard brown shipping box. She seemed to struggle a tiny bit with the box, making it seem fairly hefty. The box was expertly taped with packaging tape. It was addressed to Donald Tonius, with the correct hotel and room number, saying that it was sent from "Vulcanique Ind." with no return address. The "Jennifer" asked for Don's signature, then pushed it across the desk to him. Don, after picking it up, would find it to be about ten pounds. "Jennifer" went back to looking busy behind the desk.

The bartender Tepeltzin addressed look a bit confused. "I'm sure it can be arranged," he said, a quizzical look on his face.

Rodica let out a slight giggle at Don's remark and nodded for herself as she walked away, tipping back her tophat again and humming a tune for herself. "To each his own, to each his own..." Then she was out of view, heading through the double-doors leading into the bar-area, "What good is a song if the words don't belong? And a dream must be a dream for two..."

When Tepiltzin later caught her, she was in the process of working the jukebox with a rather focused look on her face, a longdrink of probable rum origin, mixed with something pale yellowish. She was biting her lip, then, as the right song came on, she gave a whoop and headed over to a table near the bar, where about two or three others, a woman and two men, all dressed profesionally for a day at a conference, but with relaxed looks on their faces, as if they'd all had a drink or two already.

The song that came on was... What You Waiting For? You know the one. Kind of annoying. Still, at a loud enough volume, with some alcohol in you, it gets you going.

So, once the song was on, she gave another whoop, noticed Tepiltzin and smiled broadly at him, inviting him to her table as she certainly seemed to cause enough ruckus to make it the eye of the storm in the room... not that there was much of a storm yet, to be honest.

"You know," she spoke to one of the men, a nervous guy not even in his thirties with a way too flat do that spoke volumes of nervous neatness, "Don't think I've heard anyone speak of... what did you call it?" she sat on the armrest of his recliner, one knee drawn up, and she wasn't as much sipping and nearly quaffing from the drink.

"D-Data Protection Solutions." the man replied, cradling a bottle of beer in one hand. She nodded in feigned interest and gave Tepiltzin another wave, as if impatient to have the hot latino come up and raise the heat in this party.

"Data Protection Solution," she pronounced it with some difficulty, "With such passion..." despite how she spoke, Rodica hardly seemed to be interested in the man, instead she took a sip from the drink and looked around, trying to spot others to add to her snowballing party.

Last edited by ChristianC on Fri Oct 02, 2009 2:15 am, edited 2 times in total.

Don examined the box with a quizzical look on his face. "Uh...thanks," he said, frowning. He picked it up easily in one hand and took it with him into the bar area, looking for Rodica and Tepiltzin again. They seemed friendly enough, and he was alone in a place far from home.

“Perfect,” Tepiltzin answered, noting the insistent signaling being thrown his way, “I would like to order a dry martini, to be sent to room 3226, with a note.” At this, he found a napkin and pen and scribbled To Ms. Blonde Jane Doe- Since you won’t give me a name, I insist that you have a drink. –Mr. Spice.“Could you deliver the drink and note to the front desk? Thank you. Also, I would like a glass of whatever she was served,” and he gestured in the direction of the whoops.

When he got his drink, he placed a few bills on the counter, including a tip, and walked over to join the slowly growing party. The group of professionals seemed nervous. Tepiltzin gave them a look over. Two men and a woman, with a drink or two in them already.

“So what do we drink too?” He asked the group, “Health? Beauty? Or maybe something a little more…. Enticing?”

The drink had been a custom mixture, Cane Spirit Rothschild, a brand no longer in production, mixed in with Bitter lemon and quite an amount of gin. Perhaps not sounding too flavorful, but Rodica certainly enjoyed it, and she'd already moved to chatter up another one at the table, the lady, a smiling red-head who had a look of slight caution and panic on her as the European woman played with a zippo lighter carelessly, occasionally sending flicks of the drink into the air as she had to rebalance herself on the side of the seat. Her face, however, didn't seem to even hint at intoxication just yet.

At the sight of Don entering as well, she gave another hearty laughter and jumped up from the chair, shoving the drink into the hands of the redhead (who'd just finished a small glass of wine), giving an elaborate bow to the two, nearly dropping her tophat before rolling it with ease down along her arm and into her hand, pulling out a cigar from inside it.

"How about to life?" she said with a jovical smile on her lips, nipping off the tip of the cigar and putting it into her mouth, "How fast it leaves us behind in the dust when we stop noticing it!"

Although the bar area had previously been a fairly quiet place, soft jazz playing over the speakers and everyone pretty much minding their own business and cradling whatever liquid sin they preferred, the entrance of Rodica and Tepeltzin stirred the place up quite a bit. Although it took a few minutes for all of the people in the bar to get used to the levity of the two, the place soon became a bit more lively, people opening up a bit and talking more, with each other. The two had invigorated the place, inducing a bit of life into what would have been a very somber and lonely night for the people there, who were mostly either away from their families for work, or didn't have any family other than work.

The bartender nodded after Tepeltzin's request, though after looking at the note he quietly shook his head and chuckled a little to himself. A few minutes later he took the drink and the note out to the lobby area on a platter.

And a few minutes after that he returned to Tepeltzin with the drink and the note. She had written a response on the back of the note. "No." The period after the word left a deep impression in the napkin, and the whole thing was underlined once, firmly. The bartender looked at Tepeltzin, shrugged and smiled, saying, "If it's any consolation she thought about it for a minute. That's longer than she usually does." He then returned to his station behind the bar.

Rodica thrived. There were no better words to describe it. The rainy, cold weather of LA has swept from her mind, and she busied herself with sweeping in and out of conversations, refilling a glass here, or laughing at a joke there. The young woman seemed to almost live off the hustle and bustle, and the perpetually sly smile on her lips didn't waver for a second.

She loved this. There was no other way to describe it. Just letting yourself go, have a good time, forget about your worries, and see where that path took you. You could almost hear the beat of life around her, as if she spun it around herself, wrapping herself in the spirit of those around her... perhaps she took a bit too much from some, but at least they were enjoying themselves!

She was certainly all around, and it was hard to know if she was interested in you, polite, or drunk out of her head. Not a few times did she sink into deep conversation with someone, or listen attentively, only to give a laugh, a pat on the back and a drink 'on the house'.

When the commotion seemed to be rolling on itself, she had smoked down her cigar down to half its length, ignorant perhaps of the smoking ban in the room, droplets of sweat at the back of her neck and forehead. She leaned against the bar next to Tepiltzin and blew a smokering, chuckling for herself. "It's hard to catch the bird that doesn't want to fly." she said to him with a wry smile, "Something tells me you are not from around this city either...?

“To life then!” Tepiltzin answered, raising his glass and gulping down its contents. A few drinks would not dull his senses, but it was best to keep it light. Rather, it was best to make it look like he was drinking heavily, but to still keep his wits.

When his drink was finished, he was momentarily interrupted by the return of the bartender, who showed Tepiltzin the receptionists answer and returned the drink. When he read it, he laughed, softly, balled up the napkin and shot it into the nearest trashcan. He took the drink and handed it off to someone he didn’t know. As the mood of the place began to pick up, and Rodica began her rounds about the room, Tepiltzin took up station near the bar. Instead of whirling about, reveling in the energy of the place, Tepiltzin became a center. Patrons gravitated to him, or were drawn in at Tepiltzin’s insistence, until a group had gathered. The lonely business men and women seemed desperate for some kind of excitement, and Tepilzin was more than willing to give them just enough. He passed out drinks, ensuring a steady flow of alcohol into already dulled minds. Slowly, ever so slowly, the somber place opened a bit. It wasn’t yet a party, but it was getting there. Eventually, people from the lobby or off the street might wander in, adding their voice to the growing din.

Rodica’s part in all this fascinated Tepiltzin. She moved from group to group, inserting herself with such natural ease. She fairly glowed as the pace of the party picked up. He determined to at least learn her name.

After a time, he moved on from the group around him and leaned against the bar in a new spot, sipping his drink, a blend of tequila, jagermeister, peppermint liquer and rum. As she began speaking, he directed all of his attention to her.

“You would be right. Originally I’m from up north, Big Sur area. Thought a change of pace would be nice, so moved down here. This is actually my first night in the city, figured I should make it a good one....And I’ve just realized that I don’t know your name. Mine's Adrian.”

Don took the box over to a table near Rodica and set about cutting it open with his house key. "I think it would actually be easier to catch a bird that doesn't want to fly," he pointed out, sawing through the packing tape. "Most birds would get too high off the ground too quickly if you went to catch them...if they didn't want to fly, you could just scoop them off the ground. Except big flightless birds, like ostriches. Or emus. And hell, you could catch them fairly easily, and then they'd just beat the crap out of you." He signaled the bartender. "Sam Adams, please. Boston Lager."

Rodica smiled at the two, ordering herself another drink as she ground the last of the cigar down into an ashtray. "Rodica, I'm from Romania." she answered with a smile, extending her hand to 'Adrian'. She watched as the bartender handed the Sam Adams to Don and thought over his description of bird-catching and shook her head with a laughter. "I'm sorry, maybe I said it the wrong way..." she tapped her cheek and thought for a bit. "I meant... no, never mind, you seem to know how to catch your birds." she gave the large man a pleasant smile and took her own drink, sipping from it slowly.

"I've been touring all the way from New Orleans, and I've wanted to see to the City of Angels for a long time..." she chuckled and tipped her top-hat back a bit (it seemed to slide down her eyes almost constantly), "Does it rain often here? I thought the sun always shone in California."

"Misconception supported by the film industry," Don said, sitting down. "Although the difference between the climate here and back east is what spurred them to start Hollywood - did you know that the film industry started in New York originally? They moved it here because of the weather."

As Donald ripped open the packaging on the box, there was light hum. If anyone cared to try and listen, they'd find that it was coming from the box itself. The hum elicited a comforting reaction in Donald, and a less than comfortable reaction in Adrian. Donald felt a warm fuzzy feeling in his chest, but Adrian felt his skin crawl a little.

Once Donald opened the box fully, the hum became a loud buzz, and once the top of the box was open, a loud boom came out of the box, and everybody, everything, in the bar stopped. Tepeltzin, Rodica and Donald were unaffected, though Tepeltzin had a massive headache from it. As the three Scions reeled from the odd sound coming from the box, a small form climbed out of the box. It was made of metal, stood about a foot tall, and vaguely humanoid, though without a nose. Where the eyes were supposed to be, there were instead one inch indentations. The small golem stood on the table, looking around at the three, then started talking.

"Hi!" it said cheerfully, it's voice sounding like someone talking while a bunch of pots were banging around. "Don, your dad'll be here in a few minutes," then it looked at Tepeltzin, "though he's not going to like you."

Don looked around, suddenly very embarrassed. "I can explain," he started, glancing between Rodica and Tepiltzin. "It's a, uh, top-secret new military project that I've been contracted to do. Artificial intelligence and, uh..." He looked around. "...chronological stasis. All very hush-hush, forget you saw it." He started to get up, uneasily, and glanced back down at the little construct.

Rodica smiled at the piece of trivia told to her by the burly, lumberjack-esque man with the box. She hadn't, in fact, known that, and as she took a sip from her drink she wondered for herself what'd happened to all those studios in NY once they moved to Hollywood. Still, The Rat Pack had been going crazy in the old apple, so she was sure the entire city hadn't gone into a slump 'cause of it.

Then he opened the box. She found the hum... confusing. Not disturbing in any way, but she didn't feel at all the same kind of comfort as Don seemed to find, and she found herself almost frozen in place, like the other, drink halfway up to her mouth and eyes fairly wide open. This was new.

She watched in equal silence as the tiny metal man stepped out of the box and addressed Donald, speaking as if they were old friends. She was too shocked to respond to the greeting from the little thing, just... staring at it.

Then, when Don suddenly got up, and started to mumble a confusion, she shot Tepiltzin a glance before taking a swig out of her glass. "And your... father is involved in this 'project...?'" her tone was incredulous, and slowly a smile crept up on her face as she dug out the battered old wooden box, opened it and pulled out another cigar, quickly biting off one end , flicking it away and producing a light from her zippo. "I guess you two know each other," she nodded to the two men, "if your dad is going to be angry seeing him... or is it because of Adrian here that everyone else just seems to have stopped?" She said the last thing right after blowing her first smoke-ring, turning around a chair and straddling it, top-hat obscuring her eyes.

Tepiltzin smiled into his drink as Don talked. The man was out of his element, too smart for his own good. He probably followed a rigid path, missing the finer joys that only chaos and risk could bring. To say the least, Tepiltzin did not like him. He was too intellectual, too logical, too ordered. He shot Rodica a look, eyebrows raised as he prattled on, but she was listening to him, so Tepiltzin let his mind wander, only half-listening.

He scanned the bar for anyone else interesting. The pickings were slim. A few lifeless and downtrodden business types here or there along with other lonely barflies. He wasn’t sure what had compelled him to start here, and whatever had begun him on this course had let go. It was time for the party to either pick up or for him to move on.

The humming started like an ice-pick to the back of his skull. It bored into him, and when the box opened fully, the boom rocked him, leaving his skull feeling like it had been split open. He went so far as to reach up and gingerly assess the damage along the center of his head, just to be sure. He didn’t immediately register that everything else in the place had stopped, his senses momentarily dulled by the sound.

If the sound had stunned him, then what climbed out of the box knocked him cold. As it spoke, Tepiltzin found himself, for the first time in his life, without words. He had no idea what to think. What he knew, however, was that this was no secret government nonsense. No, he had been hit by an assault, and it came from no mortal quarter. He suddenly was acutely aware of Xiuhcoatl’s presence, and of the small emerald hung around his neck. Now was not the time to use them, but the time could be soon. Like a jaguar unsheathing its claws, he reached around behind his back and subtly placed his hand on the knife hilt. What was this nonsense about Don’s father? Could this beast of a man be the child of a god? Why was Rodica still functioning? What was going on?

Last edited by ElComodoro on Tue Oct 06, 2009 5:56 pm, edited 1 time in total.

The golem turned its head, looking at the other two assembled there, and smiled, "Oh yeah, all of your dad's are coming here. Didn't you guys feel it? The world is falling apart. The war with the Titans is going well, but there's a new force. Fairly small, definitely not a Titan problem, but it's also mortal, so your parents, and your aunts and uncles, for that matter, can't touch it. But that's for them to tell you. I'm just a herald, and I'm sure other heralds will be showing up soon, too." After a moment's pause, it giggled a little then said, "And here they are now."

There came a howl through the walls, and through the wall behind them came a ghoulish specter, wailing the whole way. Its eyes were red dots, sunken impossibly far into what would have been its head. It had long black braided hair, and wore white torn up robes. Its gender was questionable. It looked at the room around it, and smiled a horrifying smile. "I see you got here, first, Golem," it said, its voice whispy, raspy and barely audible. "Then I will not need to stop time." It then looked at the three Scions around the table.

"I already gave then the whole thing we're allowed to tell them," the Golem said, smirking when it saw the sadness cross the ghost's face when it found out it couldn't tell everyone its news. "We're waiting on the last two." Then the Golem stopped and counted on its fingers again, holding only three fingers. It pointed to the last finger on its hand and said, "There's one of you missing."

To their left, there was a pillar, covered in a mirror on all four sides. The mirror began to ring loudly, then a cloudy figure appeared in the mirror, the background turning a smoky black that seemed to continually move and shift, but always completely dark. The herald of Tezcatlipoca was merely a dark humanoid form. It had no eyes, no mouth, nothing. It had a very clear voice, though, completely undistorted. "Scions, prepare for Tezcatlipoca's arrival."

"Hey, haven't seen you in a while," the Golem waved. The figure in the mirror, somehow, exuded disgust. "Like I was saying, one of you guys is missing," the golem continued, but it decided to let others deal with that.

Rodica shook her head. "No, no that can't be." she seemed visibly shaken, "Why would he come here? I thought..." her question was cut short as the ghostly apparition came, shrieking and howling, through the wall, leaving her momentarily speechless, cigar on the verge of falling out of her mouth. This was something she hadn't expected... or seen... sure, the occasional glimpse through a bottle on the bar late/early occasionally... but to see it now, right here in front of her, talking... she grew a little pale.

She simply stared at the ghost, then glanced at the golem, then the ghost again. "What exactly is..." she began, but then a mirror started talking, and she just gave up, rubbing her eyes as she leaned against the front-turned back of the chair she was straddling, drink untouched. Clearly she was among special company.

She turned to the spirit again, taking a deep breath from her cigar as she closed her eyes. "What did he say to you? My father?" she blows the smoke straight at the apparition, "What does he want with me now? I've done just like he said I should!"

The ghost looked at Rodica, looking a bit happier to be able to say its peace, though it couldn't get that much happier. It was dead. The apparitiong turned to Rodica and said, very simply, "You have done everything he has asked of you, true. Now he asks for more." The ghost looked at the others gathered there and said, "This is a matter that the gods can not touch. It regards a mortal, and-"

Here the golem cut it off by saying, "Yeah, yeah, I told them already." As it said this it waved its little hand, dismissively.

"Why you cheeky little... I'll melt you down into slag," the ghost said to it, pretending like it was strangling the golem. Of course, you can't strangle a golem, and a ghost can't touch anything anyways.